


Angel in Candlelight

by Pereybere



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, Cancer Arc, Candles, F/M, Love, Motel, Power Cut, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-17
Updated: 2018-11-17
Packaged: 2019-08-25 01:17:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16651531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pereybere/pseuds/Pereybere
Summary: Story prompt: Candles.Mulder and Scully have a serious discussion during a power cut.





	Angel in Candlelight

Title: Angel in Candlelight

 

Author: Pereybere

 

Rating: PG-13

 

Disclaimer: Characters mentioned herein belong to Chris Carter and 20th Century Fox. No infringement intended.

 

Category: MSR

 

Spoilers: Season 5, post Cancer-Arc

 

Prompt: Candles

 

A/N: My friend and I decided to prompt each other weekly with a random word. I love word prompts as it forces creativity into my brain and allows me to just go somewhere random with an idea. She gave me the word prompt CANDLES and I prompted her with MISTLETOE. Her pen name is – Shazza777  go check her out submission for our Prompt! If anyone would like to participate, just PM and one of us will toss you a word!

 

*-*-*

 

Scully works with meticulous neatness, diametrically opposed to my haphazard approach to paperwork. She has neat piles, a coherent system that she has carefully thought out: Pending on the left, Completed on right, expense forms labelled with blue post-it notes. She has cardboard folders that have tidy labels that are handwritten in her perfect, slanted script.

 

I have a single folder that contains every piece of paper pertaining to the case: every official document, a search warrant, scrawled notes – one of which was written on a ketchup stained serviette from a gloomy diner we stopped at. Scully would have taken the time to transfer those illegible notes onto a proper legal pad. She’s the order to my chaos.

 

We work at a cheap dining table in her motel room. It’s past nine and Work Day Scully has relaxed, kicked off her sensible heeled courts in favour of panty-hose covered feet. The glossy fabric is an irritant to her, I’ve noticed, because the silk lining of her grey skirt keeps creeping up her thighs. Despite her obvious frustration, I can’t resist lingering glances at her bare legs every time the hem of her skirt creeps tantalizingly higher.

 

For the last fifteen minutes she’s sat with her head bowed, occasionally sighing with discontent. This case has been frustrating to Scully because there’s been a total absence of scientific proof, massively hindering her ability to discredit every one of my outlandish theories. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed pushing the limits of my credibility.

 

She opens her mouth to voice her frustration when the shabby motel room is plunged into total darkness. Beyond the window the forecourt lies in blackness, surrounded by desert for miles. The neon sign, shaped like a cactus, has went off along with all the lights. “Power cut?” Scully asks.

 

“Seems like it,” I reply, searching my jacket that hangs over the back of the chair for the small flashlight that maintains a permanent spot in my pocket. Clicking it on, a narrow beam of yellow light casts the room in a depressing gloom. Scully lowers her pen and removes her reading glasses with eyes narrowed against the glare of the flashlight. She looks tired and in the harsh battery powered shaft of light, the effects of her illness are apparent. Even the layer of make-up she wears can’t conceal the dark, shadowy arcs under her eyes.

 

I can’t look at her for too long because I’m reminded of how close I came to losing her and I doubt I’ll ever be strong enough to dwell on how it makes me feel. _She’s alive_ , I tell myself. _She’s in remission._

 

Getting up, I cross the room and pull back the gauzy net curtain to look out at the parking lot. The overhead floodlights are extinguished, the rotating cactus sign frozen mid-spin. The vacancy sign is off too, leaving the shabby motel in occupancy-limbo. “I’ll check with the office, maybe they’ll have candles,” I say.

 

Outside, the vending and ice machines are off. There doesn’t appear to be many guests at The Desert Oasis Motel; ours is one of only three cars parked in the lot. I am guided by a flickering beam of light, emanating from the main office. When I enter, a bell tinkles merrily above the door.

 

“Sorry ‘bout the hassle,” says a voice from behind the counter. The proprietor looks like a ghostly apparition, with the bright glare of her flashlight levelled directly at her face. “Mike’s gone off to get some gas for the generator, but Ansell is twenty miles away. It’ll be awhile before we get the lights back up ‘n running.”

 

Her easy going demeanour is indicative of small-town America. She’s not bothered by the lack of electricity, or the inconvenience it causes to Scully and me. I want to ask what kind of establishment neglects to ensure they have spare gas for the generator, but past experience tells me I’d be wasting my breath. “Have you got any candles?” I ask. “The battery doesn’t last long on these flashlights.”

 

“Sure do,” said the owner. She reached into a drawer below the desk and reappeared with a fistful of tapered white candles. “Take some matches, too.” There was a bowl on the counter, filled with match-books that were emblazoned with the motel’s cactus logo. “Be sure to extend my ‘pologies to your partner.”

 

“Yeah, will do,” I said, accepting the bunch of candles.

 

Under the guidance of her own torchlight, Scully tidied away our case reports, leaving the table clear for the candles I’ve returned with.

 

“The proprietor extends her _insincere_ apologies for the inconvenience,” I say, my tone salty. It shouldn’t bother me, but years worth of crisscrossing the American subcontinent and experiencing shoddy business practices has deteriorated my patience to a rusty shell. Scully, relieving me of the candles, smiles serenely. I guess surviving a life threatening illness puts mediocre problems into some kind of perspective.

 

Scully uses the ceramic plates supplied for coffee-making facilities as holders for the candles. With her usual methodical approach, she lights each wick individually, dripping ivory wax onto the plate until enough had gathered to hold the candles securely. She does this for all four, before positioning them around the room. Finally, we extinguish the flashlights.

 

“There,” she declares with a small measure of satisfaction. “Did you ask when the electricity would be back?”

 

“Apparently the husband is driving to Ansell for gas.”

 

“Ansell’s twenty odd miles away,” Scully tells me, her cinnamon coloured eyebrow arching in amusement. She knows me too well, easily recognising the irritation I’m feeling.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“We could play I Spy or charades,” Scully jokes. She sits on the edge of her narrow twin bed. “When I was a kid I was the Scully Family champion at charades.” The flicking candles cast her in an ethereal light, tingeing her vibrant auburn hair the colour of gold. She looks porcelain – almost angelic.

 

“I bet you were,” I reply vaguely. I sit in shadow, studying the angles of her beautiful face. Our positions in the room somehow reflect the status of our lives, too. She’s light, luminosity, all the positive things that are good and pure in the world. I’m darkness, the sinister myopia that threatens to diminish her brilliance. I’m the reason she got sick, the reason why the miracle of life will never have a chance to flourish in her womb.

 

“Stop it,” she says sternly, tilting her chin upward in fierce defiance. There’s fire in her eyes, too – like the hot flame of propane gas.

 

“Stop what?” I ask.

 

“Whatever self loathing flagellation is taking place within your head.”

 

I laugh, because she really does know me so well. “I’m sorry.”

 

We’re quiet for a few moments, Scully still watching me through shrewd blue eyes. “I find it offensive that you blame yourself for my illness,” she says at last. Her jaw is tight, her brow furrowed in a way I’m come to identify as being a sure indicator of annoyance. “It’s patronising, you know.”

 

“Patronising?” I echo in disbelief.

 

“Yeah. It implies we have some.. Stockholm Syndrome type relationship where I’ve been incapable of leaving. It implies that I was _too weak_ to walk away. I’m not weak, Mulder. I choose to be here.”

 

“I’ve never, ever thought you were weak,” I protest, sitting up straighter in the armchair that smells faintly of cigarette smoke.

 

“Good, because I’m not.” She fidgets with one of her small diamond stud earrings, twisting it within her lobe. “Every time you descend into one of your self-pitying moods, I get really pissed off.”

 

“I’m not self pitying.”

 

“Bullshit,” she retorts hotly. “You’ve been moping around at least once a day since I was discharged from hospital.” I’m beginning to get really irritated by the power-cut, which is solely to blame for the trajectory of this conversation. If the proprietors of the ramshackle Desert Oasis Motel adhered to effective management, Scully and I would have been wrapping up the paperwork after a pleasant night of benign conversation.

 

“I’ve lost a fair amount in my life, Scully. I wasn’t prepared to lose you, and I’m not ready to divest myself of the guilt I feel for my part in your illness.”    

 

“It’s tedious,” she growls.

 

“That’s unfair.”

 

“Suck it up, Mulder. I’m the one who nearly died. Your self-loathing ‘woe is me’ pantomime is exhausting – and I went through chemo.”

 

I stare at her. Dana Scully, eternally patient and graceful, has turned on the full beam of her ire and aimed it straight at me. So there _is_ Irish bad temper in my favourite redhead after all. “That’s a little unfair, Scully.”

 

“Is it?” she scoffs, reminding me of the angels represented in holy artwork. She’s backlit by burning candles, her expression is richly animated and I’ve never seen her aquamarine eyes glint with which emotion before. “I feel like I’ve been given a second chance at life, Mulder. Whether it was given to me by the implant put back in my neck or by God, I don’t know – but I _want_ to live. Really live.” She puffs her cheeks out, lifting her gaze to the ceiling overhead.

 

“You _should_ want to live, Scully,” I tell her, linking my fingers together.

 

“Yeah. What a wonderful life, cast in the shadow of your self-loathing.”

 

I stare at her, feeling as though we are approaching a significant crossroads in our relationship together. She’s dissatisfied, and it shows. “Do you want to leave me?” I ask, surprised by the low, guttural timbre of my voice.

 

“I want you to live this life _with_  me, Mulder. You seem to get an almost sick sense of pleasure in your own misery – as if you’ve forgotten how to be happy.” I’m aghast – Scully doesn’t realise that I know exactly how to be happy – and it’s an emotion I find only in her company. The thought of her losing her had such a profound effect on me, I’m not ready to let my guard down.

 

Still, as she stares at me, my eternal angel, cast in the warm heavenly glow of cheap motel candles, I smile slightly as I meet her gaze. “All right,” I say quietly. “Let’s live.”  

 

-End-

 

Quick little one shot for the writing prompt: Candles. 

 


End file.
